


Devoutly to Be Wished

by Nothing_But_Paisley



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Introspection, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slash, because of course it is, cryptic conversations, fancy cannibal, fun with metaphors, thematically appropriate dinner menu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 11:46:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6609508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nothing_But_Paisley/pseuds/Nothing_But_Paisley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Come inside.” He has heard those words a hundred times, echoing back through the years. It feels so good to obey.</p><p>Hannibal and Will enjoy a last supper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devoutly to Be Wished

White noise below, the ceaseless crash of waves. Will hears it like the rush of blood in his ears that accompanies the dark impulse to jump. He turns away from the churning water and toward the tasteful villa (how could it be otherwise?) that overlooks the cliffs.

Will hadn’t known about this place, but he accepts it as just another mysterious facet of Hannibal’s life. Its precariousness suits him, as does its sterility.

Hannibal wears the loose prison jumpsuit with his usual élan, carrying the coarse cloth as though it had been cut to fit him. It is uncanny to see him here, stalking the wilds like some great cat set loose from long captivity. The same feline glee of freedom animates all his movements. A flicker of worry for Alana kindles in the back of Will’s mind, an old emotion. Perhaps, he reflects, a form of condescension. The cold salt air whips it out of him. It purges the shame he knows he should feel for enjoying every minute of this.

“Will,” the wind carries his softly spoken name to his ears, as if by command. He forces himself to look up. “Come inside.” He has heard those words a hundred times, echoing back through the years. It feels so good to obey.

The windows are already open to combat a slight mustiness in the air. Hannibal bustles about the house, whipping white drop cloths off beautiful pieces of antique furniture like a magician revealing the separated halves of his lovely assistant. Will follows behind him, unsure of what to do with himself. He feels tired, gritty, stale.

“Can I use your shower?” he asks, unnecessarily.

“Certainly. Up the stairs and to the left.” Hannibal sweeps the cloth off a red brocade sofa with a proprietary flourish. “You’ll find fresh towels in the linen closet, and a set of clothes,” he adds. Of course I will, thinks Will. When he opens the closet it exhales a breath of lavender. The shower is stocked with fine soaps with foreign labels. The scent on the steam is a decadent sandalwood cologne. 

He lingers for a while, deciding. In the seclusion and mist, it feels like limbo. He chooses a pale shirt, dresses, and descends—unsurprisingly, the clothes fit him perfectly. The thought of Hannibal selecting clothing for him what must have been years in advance sends a strange, erotic shudder through him.

His, what—only friend? _Nakama?_ Nemesis? _Lover?_ Will’s head swims. Whatever he is, he’s taken command of the kitchen. Having bathed and changed out of prison greys, he is casual but immaculate while he prepares what for him is an austere repast—a little tinned beluga caviar on a baguette pulled from the freezer and toasted, served with icy vodka to start. The main course is a simple pasta dish with sun-dried tomatoes and imported sardines, tossed with the parsley that grows wild on the estate in abundance. The chilled sauvignon blanc Hannibal pours tastes crisp and green, the airy promise of a future they can never have.

“Fruits of the sea,” murmurs Will. His stomach is empty, and the vodka burns pleasantly in his belly, warming his face. He takes a bite of the rich, salty caviar.

“The sea bears many fruits,” says Hannibal agreeably, pausing to scent the wine in a gesture that prods some tender part of Will with its instant familiarity. “It is a mirror of our unconscious self, the Jungian shadow.”

“The ocean obscures and…reveals. Flickers of light that show the gaps between reality and perception.”

“All possibilities exist within it.” Hannibal concludes, taking a prim bite. He at least has the tact to refrain from bringing up shattered teacups at the dinner table.

“It contains multitudes?” Will asks, a sardonic crack in his voice. This eerie domesticity is starting to chafe at him. The affectionate annoyance in Hannibal’s glance is somehow more terrifying than its usual blankness. Will takes a steadying swig of fragrant wine. He feels like a storybook knight who’s eaten fruit in the land of faerie—time seems to stand still. Hannibal’s vacuous eyes on him make him feel even more like a living sculpture, or, more accurately, a lump of clay awaiting manipulation. They stray over his exposed throat, his neat, buttoned torso, appreciating without leering.

“I’m afraid my provisions were somewhat lacking.”

“It’s delicious,” says Will into his plate. He carefully raises his eyes. “I’ve missed this.” He watches the barely perceptible softening in Hannibal’s expression, thinks about how much he’s capable of showing within his limited range. They dine in silence for a moment that feels eternal. The sun is setting, and the slanted light through Hannibal’s huge window panels haloes them both in gold.

“We were discussing the ocean,” offers Hannibal, reopening the conversation once their plates rest empty on the table linen. “Its significance as a dark mirror.”

“It’s more than a reflection,” says Will, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin. He recalls childhood afternoons on the Gulf with his father in their beat-up schooner, riding out sudden squalls, fishing nets quickly hauled up dripping with brine and debris and struggling, gasping life. “The ocean is a living thing, constantly changing. Always in flux.”

“Nothing gold ever stays,” says Hannibal, and the yellow light surrounding him and filling the wine glass in his hand makes him look like King Midas, cursed with riches.

“What now?” asks Will, unwilling to leave behind the safe harbor of Hannibal’s table.

“Dessert, I think,” says Hannibal with one of his empty smiles. “I have homemade blackberry preserves in the cellar, and a plate of soft cheeses.” Will idly wonders who pissed Hannibal off enough to be made into jam. “More wine?”

“Yeah,” says Will, eyes searching the dining room. It’s too late—the light is gone. “Something red.”


End file.
